Jo Clayton - Fire in the Sky

“I am also a perfumer. I distill and blend, do concentrates which I sell to the soapmaker. It is easier to do this when Tamhan is away; some of the smells are a bit overpowering. He is always bringing me new essences, flowers and other things for my distillery and glass bottles and tubing from the Glasshouse at Dumel Olterau. And he sells my perfumes in all the Dumels he stops at. I enjoy very much the creation of new blends and it helps the family prosper.”

“I do keep busy when Tamhan’s gone, though when he comes home I like to keep a lighter schedule. I like to fuss over him a bit, listen to his tales. He’s always got interesting things to tell me. I’ve been on two other Bliantas with him since that first time and it’s always good to, hear again of places I’ve seen.”

“It is sad that Dolbary and Belli are almost never home when Tamhan is. Nor do they see each other all that often, except to wave to if their barges happen to pass. A time or two they’ve tied up together, but not often. Their rounds are just too different. Cha oy, if you live from the river, you live by river’s time.”

Shadith glanced over her shoulder at the litter ponies. Danor seemed to be handling the jolting all right.

Night before last, after xe had inspected Danor, ignoring the Fior’s agitated complaints, Tokta Burek let Shadith tug xe from the room.

“He won’t listen,” she said.

Tokta Burek had just shrugged, xe’s lichen-web creaking with the movement. “He’ll fret himself dead,” xe said, “you might as well start on again and see if you can get him to rest come nightfall. He’ll not let the jarring stop him getting better, you needn’t worry over that. The chert’s too dammalheaded to die.

You said he’s been drinking smoke. That’s where those blisters come from, his body fighting the need, trying to revert to the way it was before. Can’t be too far gone, or he would be dead. I’ll give you some doses of the roec and a lotion to spread on his skin for the pustules. It will take a few weeks to work the irritants from the smoke out of his system.”

“Hunh! He’s an irritant to my system.”

Burek chuckled. “A talking boil,” xe said. Xe touched her cheek, the one with the hawk etched on it. “I have deeply enjoyed your art, Shadowsong. By next year I will have spun my husk and be dreaming the change time away and you will be part of those dreams.”

Remembering, her eyes stung. Impatiently she drew her hand across them and once again set her mind-touch to probing the dark silent forest that closed in around and over them, only a few flickers of sunlight reaching the road through the heavy canopy. She was riding a few pony lengths in front of Maorgan who was leading the single packer and the two litter ponies and looking a bit strained.

That was because Melech had gone on ahead with Lebesair. With their gas sacs and thin membranes they were vulnerable to pellet guns. One hit wouldn’t bother them much, the hole would seal itself before too much of their lift leaked away. Enough hits, though, and the weight of lead as well as the loss of gas would bring them down. An Eolt on the ground was a dead Eolt.

Wild lives brushed against her touch, feral beasts descended from the fertilized ova brought by the Fior, budding beasts that had developed here, and the curious mixes that she didn’t know how to explain. No, mix wasn’t quite the right word. Blend? Alloy rather than compound? Like the moss ponies, two strands of life style woven into a quirky whole.

In any case, no danger to them.

They stopped at intervals to feed and water the ponies. That was doubly important now that they had no spares. They stopped at noon to eat and let Shadith check Danor’s bandages and see how he was holding up.

Tokta Burek was right, the journey seemed to be speeding up the healing rather than setting him back. His temper wasn’t improved and his weakness meant it came out in spates of complaint and jabs at Shadith and Maorgan. Shadith caught him watching Maorgan with an evil satisfaction at seeing the Ard suffering the absence of his Eolt.

Mid-afternoon Shadith rode round a bend and saw a group of Fior and Denchok leaning on shovels and contemplating the bridge over the creek that crossed the road. The water foamed around rocks and hit the bridge piers with a force that made them shudder visibly. She waved Maorgan to a stop, then rode forward till she reached the group.

“Oso, Meathlan. Is the bridge safe for the crossing? We carry an injured Fior to Chuta Meredel and can’t stretch too much circling.”

They turned and stared silently at her with a blank-faced stolidity that was as intimidating as it was irritating. She’d met this response many times before in her long life, so she simply sat with her hands resting on the pommel, waiting for one of them to make up his or xe’s mind to speak.

A Denchok set hands on xe’s hips, looked from Shadith to Maorgan just visible behind her. “Injured?”

Maorgan raised his brows. When Shadith nodded, he rode a few steps forward, enough so the Denchok could see the litter.

“Chorek,” Shadith said. “Tokta Burek fetched his fever down, but we’ve got to get him to Meredel.”

“Best keep a hard watch out, the choreks’re bad round here. Politicals, lot of them, chased out of Ordumels down Plain and landed on us. And there’s no dumels for shelter ‘tween here and Medon Pass. Take it slow, maybe better get the litter over first. Storm winds last night kicked a couple planks off and the water loosened the piers some when it rose. We were just figuring how to shore them up till we can get a builder from Minach.”

When Maorgan tried to lead the litter ponies onto the bridge, they set their feet, hunched their heads down, and wouldn’t budge. Shadith clicked her tongue, slid from the saddle. “Best let me do that, Ard.”

Danor swore weakly as she edged past the ponies. She ignored him, rubbed the poll of the off bearer and considered how much control she should exert. These tough stubborn little beasts liked ground solid beneath their feet, not shifting about with little screeching whines. She rather did, herself. She could feel uneasiness on the verge of solidifying into fear. That wasn’t good. She eased into the mindfield, not trying to see through the pony’s eyes, only to give him a sense of warmth and security.

After a minute of her massaging his poll and his brain at the same time, he relaxed a little. She repeated the process on the other litter pony, then stepped away from them and pulled off her boots. She tossed them onto the road and walked the bridge, feet clinging to the worn planks, feeling them shudder against her soles. Through the openings left by the windripped planks, she could see the water hammering at the supports. They were right, though, it would hold if she could keep the ponies calm.

She came back. “Ard, your harp, play us across, hm? The Mad Mara’s Lament I taught you a while back so I can serenade our little friends here.”

“Wild things fluttered in my head,” she sang and remembered another time she’d sung that song, sitting in a cage, waiting to be sold to a bunch of bloody-handed priests.

“Wild wings fluttered in my head

And wild thoughts muttered there

In waking dreams I saw you dead

Your body rent, your throat gone red

Your splendid thighs ripped bare.

I cannot sleep, cruel love

Memory’s my Mourning Dove

Cuckoos call out, horned maid

See your faithless lover fade

All oaths broke, all hope betrayed…”

With the last notes, the caцpa stepped from the bridge, snorting as he let her lead him clear. She hitched the leadrope to a convenient sapling and ran back across the swaying timbers, collected her boots, pushed them into a saddlebag, then went back to work coaxing the other caцpas across.